Now, let me recap the plot of Battlefield Earth, for those who’ve forgotten it from your doubtless dozens of visits to the cinema. I know you’ve seen it more times than your own genitals, but that was ten years ago.

So, it’s the year 3000, and Earth has spent the last millennium enslaved to dreadlocked, koala-faced, crypto-fascist alien overlords The Psycholos. What remains of the human race is a few moderately famous actors, who go to a sort of proto-Taliban training camp and get ready to lay siege to their more famous oppressors (who turn out to be Forrest Whittaker and King John Travolta of Brainland). After a week stuck in a sort of cross between Carry on Camping and a Jihadi ransom video… in space, they mount an assault on The Psycholos in Harrier Jump Jets and with teleportable atomic weapons.

This is a real film. Reread that last paragraph, punch yourself in the mouth to prove you’re awake, then say out loud, through the bleeding gaps in your teeth: “This is a real film.”

Box offices took $30 million off people paying to watch all that. Just so JD Shapiro would have a shot at sex with a Sea Org (which are just called slaves in the real world). And he didn’t even get it.

One final observation Shapiro’s letter reports a conversation with John Travolta, who was also the movie’s producer. If you’ve ever wondered how much of a genius Travolta is, just imagine his grinning microwave of a face as he says these five words over a high-powered Hollywood deal-busting dinner. Five little words: “The ‘Schindler’s List’ of sci-fi.”

6.58: Another chapter crossed off the list, without too much fuss. We’re beginning now to get to what football commentators call the business end of things. Men will be sorted from boys, and galloping majors from shrinking violets. Still, courage mounteth with occasion. Or not.